


Negotiating Happiness

by bookjunkiecat



Series: Longings [15]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Gen, M/M, Parent!lock, Parenthood, Parentlock, Past Drug Use, Past Violence, Relationship Negotiation, Therapy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-17
Updated: 2017-03-17
Packaged: 2018-10-06 17:53:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,172
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10341033
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bookjunkiecat/pseuds/bookjunkiecat
Summary: John and Sherlock host a party for Rosie. Molly and Mycroft have an awkward talk about what the future holds. Ella counsels the boys on their relationship and their personal issues. Molly and Althea plot. And yes, I am aware her name is Anthea, but I prefer Althea, so that's what you get :) Or should I say, her fake name is Anthea, so does it matter if I change it to Althea?





	

          “My brother is insufferable,” Mycroft murmured discreetly to Molly, handing her a wine glass, “Also, I’ve had a quick look and this bottle of plonk is liable to strip the enamel off of your teeth, so drink sparingly.”

          The giggle that greeted his remarks was quiet, and she buried her face in her glass, taking a tentative sip. “Urg,” Molly gurgled, “That’s dreadful. Honestly, I wish you hadn’t introduced me to really good wines….I haven’t enjoyed a party since.”

          “Your friends and associates shouldn’t buy such—forgive the pun—bottom of the barrel wines.”

          Sparkling eyes met his, and Mycroft was in danger of smiling in public, “Did you just make a terrible joke? How much whiskey have you had to drink, Mycroft?”

          “Not enough to numb the tedium.” He surveyed the room, “I must thank John for serving alcohol at what is, after all, a children’s party.”

          “Hardly that, darling, just a party for a child. Rosie’s the only one under thirty here. John and Sherlock had a little party for her class at the crèche this morning.” A smile lit Molly’s face, “I took fairy cakes for them all. There was frosting everywhere, it was adorable!” She pulled out her mobile and flicked through the gallery of photos.

          “So many sticky fingers,” Mycroft shuddered delicately at the thought. His girlfriend poked him in the side with her elbow and shushed him. Holding up her phone she showed him the pictures, and his face softened as he looked at Rosamunde’s dimpled face, liberally smeared with lavender frosting. Molly melted inside every time she saw him with John’s daughter; he was different with the small girl, showing a tender side that even she didn’t inspire in him.

          Molly looked at the man so many called The Ice Man, saw the soft look in his eyes and blurted out, “Do you want a baby?”

          It was only when he gave her an appalled look that she wished she could swallow her words.

 

******

 

          “Uh oh, Mycroft’s got that constipated look on his face,” John whispered to Sherlock, “Something must have upset him. Too many plebs in the room? Or maybe a coup in North Korea?” John huffed a laugh, “Or the cleaners lost his favorite waistcoat?”

          Sherlock smirked, “Perhaps Molly finally refused his revolting advances and he’s suffering from an overabundance of sexual tension.”

          John shuddered, “ _Eugh_. And also? False. I’ve seen the way they are together, it’s not that. He was fine until a minute ago, he was looking at his phone and suddenly he pokered up, and now Molly’s looking miserable.”

          Swinging around, Sherlock considered his brother, who was standing alone in the corner, hands in the pockets of yet another of his perfectly tailored three piece suits, regarding the small gathering with a remote expression. Molly was across the room with Mrs. Hudson and Mummy, not looking at Mycroft. “She said something that panicked him,” Sherlock dismissed, turning back. “They’ll work it out.” John had a fleeting moment of wonder as to just what Molly Hooper could say to _panic_ Mycroft Holmes.

          “I’d ask if you were sure, but of course you’re never wrong,” John said with heavy sarcasm. Sherlock looked at him in surprise, but relaxed and smiled when he saw the teasing light in his beloved John’s navy-blue eyes.

          “Right you are, John,” Sherlock murmured, standing too close. He subtly edged the other man into the kitchen—well, he thought it was subtle, but everyone in the room watched them go and hid their amusement. The two had been involved for some time now, and although Sherlock was willing to keep a low profile for John and Rosie’s benefits, in private he tended to be reserved still, even in front of friends and family. His maneuvering to get John alone constantly for a snog or a quick grope had quickly become a running joke among their circle. John was aware of it, although Sherlock somehow hadn’t worked it out.

          John let himself be pushed into the kitchen and leaned back against the counter, smiling from under heavy eyelids. He was fully aware of how seductive Sherlock found this. “Did you have something to say to me in private?”

          “Just that your bottom is pert and eye-catching in those trousers and I demand you take them off as soon as all of our guests are gone.”

          Crossing his arms, the doctor tilted his head questioningly, “Oh yes? And what if I decline?”

          “As if you ever do,” Sherlock crowded him, looking down with a small smile. “You’re an exhibitionist and a hedonist, John Watson.” One long finger softly stroked his cheek, and he leaned in for a kiss, breathing against John’s lips, “To my everlasting pleasure.”

          Sherlock, as in everything that interested him, John had discovered, threw himself whole-heartedly into a physical relationship. He was also rather heart-stoppingly tender and affectionate with John, and had discovered a surprising love of cuddles.

          There were still times, due to the fact that neither of them were saints, when they got into a blazing row over the state of the kitchen, or because Sherlock had lied (“For your own safety and that of Watson, John!”), or when John struggled with his temper; but overall, life at this point in time was perilously close to perfect. Since neither of them had ever experienced perfection, and because their lives, whenever they became too bucolic, always seemed to blow up in their faces (often quite literally), it was inevitable that eventually one or both of them would crack.

          Knowing his craving for excitement, and Sherlock’s addiction to danger as John did, he was aware that sooner than later they were bound to have a blow up and probably quarrel like schoolboys and there would be a certain amount of  sulking (Sherlock) and grumbling (John). For now, he was enjoying the grace period.

          Following a few hearty kisses and a bit of light petting, John pinched Sherlock’s side lightly and pushed him away, “Right. We have guests. Come along.”

          Returning to the living room, Sherlock smoothly announced that they had been checking on the punch reserves.

          “Alright, then?” Lestrade asked cheekily. Sherlock nodded seriously, and assured him there was plenty to go around. “Thank Christ for that,” the Detective Inspector said with a straight face. Sherlock looked at him a bit oddly, and behind his back John shot their friend a look.

          Hours later, after their guests had gone, and Rosie was mostly asleep in Sherlock’s arms (a calculated move on his part to escape post-party clean up), John came up the stairs from taking the rubbish to the bins outside, and sighed. “Tired?” Sherlock asked, lifting his head from where he had been kissing Rosie’s temple and murmuring soothingly. As always, John’s heart melted into downright goo at the sight of his girl in Sherlock’s embrace; the man who had been formerly emotionally wary was loving and thoughtful with Rosie, and it only made John love him more.

          “Yeah, a bit. Rosie has the right idea. An early bedtime sounds a treat.” John put his hand on Sherlock’s shoulder and bent to kiss first Rosie, and then Sherlock, who smiled at the touch of John’s lips on his cheek.

          “Aren’t you hungry? All you had was a piece of cake and some biscuits.”

          “And a cup of punch,” John grimaced. He much preferred tea.

          “Speaking of punch,” Sherlock said thoughtfully, “Lestrade wanted to make sure there was plenty, yet he never drank any. Did it strike you that he was behaving somewhat strangely tonight?”

          John grinned against his cheek and gave him a noisy kiss, “He was taking the piss, love. He knew what we were up to in the kitchen.”

          Scowling, Sherlock kept his voice soft so as not to disturb their daughter. “I’ll get him back for that.”

          “No vendettas, please. I think we’ve had enough archenemies for one decade.” John looked back from the kitchen doorway and caught the quirk of Sherlock’s lips, and grinned at him, “Tea?”

          “Yes, please. I’m going to put this one to bed. Then a quick shower.”

          “Shall I join you?”

          “There’s always room for you, John.” Sherlock joined him in the doorway, and they shared a lingering kiss, then John kissed Rosie and told her goodnight. She whined softly, half asleep, one of her hands clutching Sherlock’s curls, the other with a firm grip on his shirt collar. Sherlock chuckled, “I think she may need to be extricated with care.”

          He spent several minutes settling her in her bed, smoothing the covers, turning on the Merida nightlight Aunt Molly had given her and winding up the spinning planetarium globe he had bought her. “You are dearly loved and precious to your daddy and to me, Rosamunde. Today was your birthday, but you are _our_ gift.” Sherlock said softly, bending over to kiss her one last time, his hand smoothing her hair. “Sweet dreams, dear heart.” He touched the framed picture of Mary on the bedside table, “Goodnight, Mary.”

          John was in their bedroom upstairs, which they had decided to share until Rosie was bigger and could manage the stairs. When she was older they would move into the larger master bedroom. He stood at the end of their bed, nude, his compact, powerful body outlined by the lamp on the bedside. As he so often was, Sherlock was struck by a rush of happiness so keen that his hands shook. John turned at the sound of his footsteps and smiled, “She go down alright?”

          “Asleep before I had left the room. It was a very busy day for her.” Sherlock began undressing, putting shoe trees in his shoes, hanging his trousers up in the wardrobe, putting his dark blue dress shirt in the hamper where their dry cleaning went (well, mostly his, John tended to wear easy-care clothing) and chucking his pants, vest and socks in the laundry hamper. The detritus from his pockets he dumped in a small, misshapen and poorly painted bowl. This bowl was one of his most beloved possessions, as Rosamunde had “made” it for him in her nursery class.

          “I found her with a dead cricket in her mouth this morning,” John said in fond exasperation. “When I took it away from her she starting crying as if her heart were broken.”

          Sherlock smiled, “Curiosity about the world around you is the sign of a healthy and agile mind, John. Look, I forgot to show you. This morning after you left the nursery school to go pick up the cake, Rosie drew this picture.” Proudly displaying the folded paper he’d plucked from the bowl, Sherlock beamed at the scribbles in purple crayon. “I think she was trying to spell her name! Look! Here at the bottom.”

          John followed his pointing finger and hid a smile, “Could be an R there. Our little genius!” He kissed Sherlock, “Definitely takes after her dad.”

          Sherlock would deny it hotly, but he blushed. “When I complimented her on her penmanship she kissed me and said ‘I love daddy’ as clear as a bell.” He massaged John’s damaged shoulder, “Her affectionate nature clearly comes from you.”

          John stepped into his space, his feet between Sherlock’s, and embraced him firmly, the way Sherlock loved, and kissed his chest, pressing his nose into the slight hollow between Sherlock’s pectoral muscles, where he sprayed a light mist of cologne every day. “God you smell delicious,” John growled, nipping his skin and causing gooseflesh to ripple. They kissed and when they finally parted, John was plastered to him as close as he could get. “I’m not the only one with an affectionate nature.”

          “That’s the Watson influence,” Sherlock joked, patting his hip.

          John chuckled and pulled him downstairs to the bathroom. “No messing about now, I’m too tired tonight.”

          “So early in the relationship and already you’re trying to avoid sex.”

          “We did it twice this morning before Rosie woke up.” John tested the spray of water and stepped into the tub, narrowly missing a plastic tugboat. “Oi! Her highness’s toys are still in here.”

          Sherlock bit his lip, looking guilty, “I forgot to take those out…we were having such fun, John, playing pirates.” He held out the plastic tub they stored the bath toys in. “Pitch them in here, I’ll take care of them later.” Toys out of the way, he joined John in the shower, and despite the other man’s protestations that all he wanted was a wash, there might have been a bit of rumpy pumpy.

          “You’re insatiable,” John grumbled, toweling himself off. “That’s what comes of abstinence; people just go mad with lust when they finally give in.”

          “You love it, slapper.” Sherlock agilely ducked the wet towel snapped at his arse and retreated to the kitchen, cackling. John smiled to himself and caught sight of his reflection in the vanity mirror, “Pretty pleased with yourself, eh?” He nodded at his reflection, “Yup, me too.” He hung up their towels, cleaned up the wet toys Sherlock had “forgotten” once more, and turned off the light. In the hallway he called softly, “Love?”

          “Go upstairs, John, I’ll bring the tea.”

          Tucked in bed under the covers, John set his alarm, plugged in his mobile and arranged his pillow until he was comfortable. Sherlock came into the room, walking slowly so as not to spill the mugs of tea he carried. “Here you are,” holding out John’s chipped mug with his Brigade hackle on it. On his side of the bed he set down his own tea, settled himself and took a sip. Out of the corner of his eye he watched John pick up his mug.

          John caught him watching, “Hey—you haven’t drugged me again, have you?” At the younger man’s look of affront, “Oh don’t poker up, you’ve done it loads of times by your own admission.”

          Speaking loftily, Sherlock assured him his tea was just tea. “And too much milk and a bit of sugar. Just as you like,” he sighed in a put upon way, hiding his smile in the mug. John knew him too well to buy it and just grinned. They chatted about the day, laughing at all the pictures on Sherlock’s phone. He had captured Rosie in every one of them, posing or candid, with each friend and family member, opening gifts and in general being adorable.

          Finished with his tea, Sherlock plugged in his phone and slid down in bed, giving John an expectant look; when John’s arm raised he snuggled up to his side, laying his head on John’s thigh. As hoped for, John’s fingers almost immediately began to card through his damp curls; a blissed out sigh alerted him to Sherlock’s contentment, and John finished off the last dregs of tea and turned out his lamp, sliding down to lay so that Sherlock could curl into his chest. “Right where I wanted you,” John said, voice rumbling under Sherlock’s ear. “Right where you belong.” A kiss to those wild curls, “You going to sleep?”

          “Mmm, gonna try,” Sherlock asserted, “I like it when I sleep with you.”

          “I like it too,” John kissed him again, stroked his hand down Sherlock’s back, up again, pressing a little harder, almost massaging. “I’ve noticed you taking better care of yourself; sleeping more, eating regularly.” A pause, “Is that for me?”

          “You and Watson,” Sherlock replied, tucking the covers in around John’s back and slipping his arm under them to embrace him. “I wish to be with you for as long as possible, and as you’re so fond of reminding me, I’m only human.”

          “The most human human being I know,” John whispered, feeling a burr of tears in the back of his throat. Sherlock squeezed him tightly and they lay in silence, waiting for sleep to find them.

 

          ******

 

_Meanwhile, across town…_

          Truly, it had been something of a surprise to Molly that Mycroft had come into her flat after they left the party. Given her gaffe, she would almost have expected him to excuse himself after walking her to her door. No more had been said about her blurted question for the remainder of party, and even when they were in the privacy of her home he didn’t bring it up. Molly was torn between wanting to make a joke out of it, asking him if it were something he wanted and pretending it had never happened.

          That last one sounded particularly appealing. Molly had never been a fan of confrontation, she liked to smooth things down, not ruffle them up. Normally, if it were only a matter of say, wanting to spend a weekend away, or coaxing him to wear the new jeans she had bought, or convincing him not to strangle Toby for using his £400 Italian silk tie as a toy…well, she could deal with it. But this was important. If Mycroft wanted children…well, they definitely needed to talk. 

          Mycroft had taken off his suit jacket, waistcoat and tie (more formal than even he would normally wear to a two year old’s party, but he had come straight from work) and rolled up his shirt sleeves. While she pulled off her shoes and tights and let down her hair, he began heating up Thursday’s leftover Boeuf Bourguignon, and slicing bread. “Do you care for any wine, my dear? Or shall I put the kettle on?”

          Standing at the counter, Molly watched him fondly. He had proved remarkably useful in the kitchen, and when they were at her place Mycroft pitched a hand in with cooking and dishes. The first time he had taken the rubbish out to the bins Molly had snogged him senseless. After so many months he was very comfortable in her home, in her life, integral to her happiness; she hoped that the issue of a child wasn’t going to prove to be an issue.

          “I could do with some decent wine,” she allowed, fetching the bottle from the counter and stretching to reach the wine glasses. Easily snagging two of them from the shelf, Mycroft set them down and she thanked him. Pouring them each a glass she took a deep breath, and then spoke. “Have you given any thought to what I said?”

          Giving the stew a stir, he tapped the excess off the spoon and put it in the spoon rest, then turned to face her. “I have.” A cautious, “In truth I’ve thought of little else since you broached the subject.”

          Molly held her breath. After a minute she got nervous and started buttering the bread he had sliced. Mycroft took out bowls, silverware and plucked two paper serviettes from the basket she stored them in. He stood with full hands, looking down, then sighed and sat them down, took the bread and the butter knife out of her hands. “Look at me please, my dear.”

          Complying, she was happy to see that while he looked serious he didn’t look unhappy or upset. “Was this a whim? Or do you truly want a child?”

          “Do _you_ want a child?” She hedged.

          “Not what I asked,” Mycroft pointed out gently. He waited patiently, and she chewed her lower lip nervously before speaking haltingly.

          “When I was a little girl, I…I wanted what I thought all little girls grew up to have: a cozy little house and a husband like a figurine on a wedding cake, and babies.” Molly drank too much wine, pressed her lips together and finally looked at Mycroft, “I’m not forty yet, it’s not too late for me to have children, but it _is_ old enough for me to know that I don’t desire them. In fact, as much as I love Rosie, I think—no, I _know_ — that I’m happier without any of my own.”

          “But you asked me if I wanted—“ Mycroft cocked his head, “Ah, you see how I feel about Rosamunde and you wanted to know if I wished for children of my own?” At her nod he smiled and took her hand, “Rest assured, Molly, that you are all I need to make my personal life happy and fulfilling. Children have never been a consideration; they are not anything I ever planned as part of my life. My affection for Rosamunde was a surprise to me, but it is not an indication that I wish for children.”

          She sighed in relief. “Are you sure? It isn’t that I hate children or anything, and I would be happy to make you happy by having a baby if you wanted…”

          Mycroft smiled at her ramblings, his eyes warm. “I think we are best as we are now, don’t you agree?”

          Her nod earned her an approving smile and a kiss on the forehead, “Excellent.” Mycroft turned back to the pot, gave it a stir and turned down the heat, then turned back to her, “If you ever decide that I am not enough for you, my dear…if you ever decide that you _do_ want children, please don’t hesitate to ask.” He smiled, a sardonic look in his eyes, “I’d do nearly anything to make you happy—including nappies, temper tantrums and Baby &Me yoga.”

          She laughed and kissed him so thoroughly they forgot where they were at. The food scorched. Neither of them cared.

 

******

 

          “I think the two of you are handling the change in your dynamic very well,” Ella said with one of her cautious smiles, “From what you tell me, the stress of becoming a couple and managing parenting as a team has mostly gone smoothly. John, I’ve noticed that lately your blog deals mostly with cases. You haven’t touched much on the personal…are you still trying to maintain privacy for your family?” 

          “Yeah,” John sighed, patted his thighs, “I don’t care who knows I’m in a relationship, but I think it’s better if our private lives aren’t on display. Given how people have attempted to use that against Sherlock in the past.”

          “And Sherlock, you’re okay with this?”

          “Of course.”

          “You spoke very quickly. There is no ‘of course’ about it; it would be fine if you felt differently than John.”

          John looked at Sherlock, who had his clasped hands in front of his mouth, a somewhat clinical look on his face. “Love?” He prompted, putting a hand on Sherlock’s knee. Sherlock automatically took John’s hand in his and smiled at him. “I’ve never been in a relationship before, so I don’t know what’s normal. My preference is to keep the spotlight off of Rosie, so John’s path seems the correct one to take.”

          “But?”

          He hesitated, “…I—I sometimes feel that perhaps John is holding back.” He looked apologetic when John’s face registered surprise. “Not when we’re together, not since the early days, when we were still figuring out our physical relationship.” They both blushed. “But, well, when we are out in public often you behave as you did before. Before we became a couple,” Sherlock clarified.

          “In what way does his behavior change, Sherlock?”

          “We never hold hands, or kiss, if there are other people present.”

          John was surprised, “I thought you were the one who wanted to be discreet. I recall you saying once that people treated restaurants and public transport like bedrooms.” He looked at Ella, “it wasn’t a joke.”

          “I have no intention of instigating bedroom behavior in public, John, but I wouldn’t mind holding your hand—when the occasion is appropriate, even I know a crime scene would be out of bounds—or even sharing a kiss, occasionally.”

          Ella nodded, jotted something down in the file, “That’s excellent sharing, Sherlock; it is very natural, to want to express affection for your partner. And John, how do you feel about it?”

          His face was open as he looked at Sherlock, “I’m okay with it! I was just trying to make you comfortable.” Squeezing the younger man’s hand in his, John smiled affectionately, “Before you know it, we’ll be disgusting friends and strangers with our canoodling.”

          Sherlock tried to look stern but his mouth twitched, “ _Canoodling_ ,” he murmured.

          “Why don’t the two of you try an experiment?” Ella suggested, “The next time you are out, say at the shops, or having dinner with friends, exchange a kiss. Or hold hands while taking your daughter for a walk. See if you’re both comfortable with that.”

          She made a notation to check back with them during their next visit, “Now, John; how have you been doing with your anger issues?”

          “Good, good.” He looked at Sherlock, “We’ve had some small fights, normal, I’d say, never got out of control. It was all verbal, nothing nasty.”

          Sherlock shifted uneasily, “This is ridiculous. John would never hurt me.”

          Ella’s expression was neutral, but her tone brooked no nonsense, “Sherlock, John himself admitted that he beat you quite severely the day you confronted Culverton Smith. And you told me that the two of you engaged in several bouts of physical confrontation when you returned from the dead.”

          “Yes, but I had that coming,” Sherlock said earnestly, “John thought—“

          “No, Sherlock,” John interrupted, “Ella’s about to stop you there, so let me do it first; you did not have it coming. I was furious, yes, and I’m still hurt about it—“ he held up a staying hand, “I know all the very excellent reasons why you did it, but that doesn’t mean that emotionally I don’t still feel hurt and excluded. None of that, however, means you deserved having me try to finish what Moriarity started.” Gripping his knees he stared at the carpet. “And as for what I did in that morgue…” Unable to go on, he shook his head.

          Sherlock leaned forward as if he would reach for him, but Ella touched her fingertips to the cuff of his jacket and shook her head. “Give him a minute,” she counseled. After a few minutes John exhaled shakily and sat up straight, looked at Ella and then at Sherlock. “Nothing will ever excuse me beating the shit out of you. I will never be able to forget that I did that to you.” He reached out, cupped Sherlock’s face in his hand, “I never, _ever_ want to be in a position where I lose control like that. The idea of hurting Rosie, or you…no.”

          “That isn’t who you are, John.”

          “And that’s why we’re here, to make sure that’s not the man I become.” John addressed the therapist, “Right, Ella?”

          She smiled at them both, “That’s exactly right. John, you completed your anger management course brilliantly, and everything I hear in our sessions tells me you have a handle on your anger. But that’s why you’re both here…to make sure that you relate healthily as partners, and as parents. We’ll touch back on the subject, but that doesn’t mean that at this time I see any cause for concern.”

          Shifting restlessly in his seat, Sherlock snuck a look at the watch on John’s wrist. Ella caught him and chuckled, “Anxious to be gone? You’re next. Tell me, Sherlock, have you had any desire for drugs since your last visit?”

          “No,” he said immediately, but at her level look he rolled his eyes, “Fine, okay, yes of course I have. But I haven’t done anything about it…about finding any, I mean.” A ruffle of his dark hair, “I haven’t had anything stronger than paracetamol or wine since Sherrinford. I’ve _wanted to_. God, sometimes after I leave there, leave my sister there, I crave oblivion.”

          After a lengthy silence, Ella spoke, “What stops you?”

          “John. Watson. Molly…Mycroft…Mummy and Father.” Sherlock stared at the painting on the wall behind Ella. “I’ve got too much to lose, haven’t I? Before…before I was alone. Or I told myself I was. Only now, I have all these people I can’t let down.”

          “What about yourself?”

          The gentle question seemed to silence him and it was a long time before Sherlock answered, “I have more than the Work now, more to lose. More at stake.” He looked at John with eyes that burned fiercely, “I would do anything not to lose you again. I’ve spent too long alone and I don’t ever want to go back to that.” He looked at Ella, his passionate assurance hardening into resolve. “If that means that I never again touch a single narcotic in my life, I’m content to do so. I am more than able to deny myself food and sleep when it furthers the cause of a case I am working. I am confident I can abstain from drugs for love.”

          They both jumped when John suddenly sobbed. It was a harsh, ugly sound and it took them all by surprise. Sherlock hovered over him but John managed a gulping laugh and motioned him to sit back down. After a struggle to compose himself he patted down Sherlock’s anxious hovering, “I’m fine, I’m _fine_ , Sherlock. Sit, for God’s sake.”

          “Is there something you need to share, John?”

          John nodded at her question, “Yeah, yeah, I just…God, hearing you say that, that we mean that much to you, it felt so good it _hurt_. And it terrifies me too, that we’re the reason you’re staying clean. That’s a lot of responsibility, you know? Like, how am I supposed to take it if you have a setback?”

          “He has a point, Sherlock,” Ella said gently, “Having a reason to stay sober is important, but it’s equally important for you to recognize that you deserve to be sober for _you_. Not just because of John, or your daughter, or anyone else.” She tapped her pen thoughtfully on the file. “I’d like you to do an exercise for me, Sherlock. The next time you come in, bring me a list of reasons to stay sober—and they can’t be simply the name of a loved one. Think about what motivates you, what you love, what matters.”

 

******

 

          Rather successfully, early in their relationship, Molly had convinced Mycroft that he didn’t need to shower her with gifts. Mostly, he had restrained himself, but from time to time he still surprised her with small tokens. He enjoyed the thrill of finding the perfect gift, had a good time leaving them in unexpected places, and Molly saw that it provided him legitimate enjoyment, so she entered into the spirit of things and on occasion surprised him with a small present of his own.

          Following a busy morning with students in the lab, and a rather late lunch, Molly settled in at her desk to review the file for an autopsy she had performed, which was going to be entered as evidence in a court case. Naturally, as the attending pathologist, she would be called to give testimony, and she wanted to refresh her memory. Reaching to turn on her desk lamp she was surprised to see a box on the base of the lamp; it was silver leather, the perfect size to hold a ring.

          “Oh,” Molly said happily, reaching for it. “Mycroft, you sneak. This had better not be diamonds!” There was a note folded underneath and she opened that first.

 

My dear,

It is my hope, following our conversation of the other evening, that you are happy with our current situation. I do believe that you are, however I wanted to send you a small token of my devotion. Whenever you look at this, recall that you are my happiness.

M xoxo

 

        A bit of blubbering accompanied the reading of the letter; Molly carefully wiped away her tears and kissed the letter tenderly. The fact that Mycroft had signed the letter with hugs and kisses touched her more than the prospect of whatever was in the box. Folding the letter neatly, she slipped it in her hand bag and turned to the box; opening the tiny clasp and raising the hinged lid, Molly held her breath.

          Normally she wasn’t much of one for jewelry, and it was rare that Mycroft gave her any. When they first began dating he had given her an (as it turned out) antique bracelet, a Victorian affair of enameled violets in blue and yellow. In the Victorian language of flowers (as she now knew, because she dated Mycroft Holmes, and he was well versed in that sort of thing) blue violets symbolized love and faithfulness, while yellow violets represented goodness and high worth. Now whenever he sent her flowers, or floral themed gifts, she Googled the meaning; it was rather ridiculously romantic of him.

          Holding her breath, she peeked in the box, and then beamed at the lovely little ring nestled inside. It was an aquamarine—her birthstone—and a white opal—Mycroft’s—mounted side by side with a delicately curved setting that formed a subtle infinity shape. There _were_ diamonds, but they were small, baguettes set down the sides of the white gold band.

          A small printed card inside the ring box explained that “ _Aquamarine is known as the gem of happiness and everlasting youth. Opal is known as the gem of brilliance and mystery_.”

          A delighted laugh broke the silence of her office; happiness and mystery, that was the two of them alright.

          The ring fit, of course—it wouldn’t dare do otherwise—and Molly slipped it on her right ring finger and extended her hand to admire the lovely sight. Sod work, she was calling him now and thanking him. Unfortunately he did not answer, and she hated to thank him by text. After a minute she called Althea, who didn’t answer but did send a text telling her to expect a call in ten minutes. It was nearly fifteen before Mycroft’s PA called her back.

          “Sorry, it took longer than I thought to get off the phone. What can I do for you, Molly?”

          “Hi, Althea! Sorry to take you away from work, but I wanted to see if Mycroft is in meetings all day, or if he might have a little time to call me?”

          “He is booked until five, after which he has a drinks meeting across town, and then dinner—or rather, acid remarks and cutting glances over untouched plates—with a frenemy. I might be able to prise loose five minutes around four, will that do?”

          “It would, bless. Oh, and Althea! I wanted to set up a little surprise for Mycroft only I need your help.”

          “Oh?” Althea sounded wary, and Molly laughed, “Nothing sinister, but it _will_ be an inside job. I’ll email you tonight, alright?”

          Feeling guilty that she was spending so much time on non-work related calls, Molly still took the time to snap a picture of the ring on her hand, finally taking one she liked, with her smiling face in the background. Opening it in an app, she added a filter with opaque pink hearts and little flecks of gold glitter, and added in pink letters _I love my ring & I love you! ~M xoxo_

Sending it off to Mycroft via text, she got down to work, looking forward to talking to him at four.

 

******

 

          A week later, Mycroft walked into his office and stopped cold. Turning around he walked back out and stopped next to Althea’s desk. She finished typing and looked at him inquiringly, “Did you need something, sir?”

          He suppressed the desire to roll his eyes at her innocent expression and businesslike manner. “What is the meaning of that—that—thing on my desk?”

          “Ah, that. Yes. That is a gift from Ms. Hooper.” Althea kept her face neutral, “She appealed to me to lend her a hand in bringing a surprise in to your office. This, if you think about it, is only fair, since you often leave things for her at her work place.”     

          “Not exactly the same,” Mycroft pointed out. “The security levels are vastly different for one thing.”

          “I carried it in myself, and I assure you there are no recording devices of any kind—“

          He did roll his eyes at that. “The message, Althea. The message that would send were it to remain…I don’t do frivolous.”

          “I think you should keep it. It will make people wonder. It will drive them crazy.”

          The reasoning was thin, but Mycroft considered the matter for a moment then his lips quirked. “Very well. It can remain.”

          Two hours later, after a rather tense meeting with an undersecretary, Mycroft returned to his emails as his visitor departed. The man stopped at Althea’s desk and turned to look back at the closed door.

          “Can I help you with something, sir?” Althea was fairly frosty at the best of times, but he shivered a bit when she spoke.

          “Hmm? Erm, no. No, thank you.” He hurried off, eager to tell his office mate that Mycroft Holmes had a small fish bowl on his desk, complete with a fish, a figurine of a knight on horseback, and a tiny castle. “What do you think it means? He has a goldfish!” he wondered in amazement.

**Author's Note:**

> Please note that I am in no way a therapist, counselor, or psychiatrist; I just wrote the therapy scene based off of common-sense, some light research and the foundation laid by a lot of really well-developed fan fiction! If you have problems with drugs/alcohol, rage, self-harm or domestic abuse, please seek professional help.
> 
> Also, this was in no way supposed to infer that John has been guilty of spousal abuse, or that Sherlock is "cured" of his addiction; it was not treating either topic lightly; and it was not inferring that the boys are having relationship issues...I just think it makes sense for them both to seek couple's therapy with someone who has treated them both, and given all the PTSD and emotional turmoil they have experienced.


End file.
